Reality hurts sometimes

I always hate going to the nursing home. It’s so taxing on my emotions. As we pull into the parking lot, my heart skips a beat. I know what’s coming next. Slowly, I walk across the parking lot with my bags of magazines and other items I’ve chosen to bring Mama today. When we approach the door to the building, I see my hand reach out to press the large black button that allows us instant access.

We walk into the entryway and I purposely avoid looking directly into any of the residents eyes…it’s too painful. I quickly survey the room with a sweeping glance and plaster on my huge “what a beautiful day” grin and we continue walking. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the heavyset African American woman, a double amputee, sitting in her wheelchair parked in front of the TV with the other residents. She seems strong and feisty. I know she sees me glance her way and I smile. She doesn’t smile back. I think she’s probably hardened herself to the glances of pity at her loss of limbs and she’s just learned to take it with a grain of salt.

The door to Mama’s room is closed. I stand in front of it and stare at the “please knock” sign for a few minutes before gently tapping on the door. There’s no answer but I know she’s inside because I can hear the TV blaring. I push the door open and peek around the corner catching her eye. She seems shocked to see us but happy at the same time. She doesn’t look away from the TV but just for a minute and we make ourselves at home in nearby chairs.

At first, we begin with the normal chit chat…how are you today? What’s been happening? Anything new with you? After a few pleasantries, and trying to talk over the TV, I ask if we can turn it off for a while. Reluctantly, Mama agrees and hands me the remote.

It’s nice to be able to talk without the constant noise from the television. As we talk, she mentions a recent trip that my sister made to Chile and as she’s talking about it, I pull up photos on my cellphone from my sister’s Facebook page to show my mother. She looks intently at the pictures analyzing each detail and committing them to memory. I continue pulling up various photos to show her and we talk about each one. We cover a myriad of topics and then the room becomes quiet. There’s nothing left to say to fill the void, so I try to think of a childhood memory that might help start up a new conversation.

Do you remember when you and Daddy took us to a sugar cane farm when we were younger? Where was that, Mama? She didn’t really remember but thought it might have been at a state fair. I had hoped to glean more details for my own memory bank but she doesn’t offer anything else and I let it drop.

A nurse’s aide comes in to bring the lunch tray. I get up to help Mama remove the lid and also to see what’s on the menu for today. There are chicken strips, pork and beans, coleslaw, potato soup and some sort of chopped fruit. There’s no color and it looks disgusting. I asked her if she ever gets fresh fruit and veggies and she tells me that it’s very rare to have those things. No wonder the people here have such sluggish movements. It’s not only because of their age but they’re not receiving vital nutrients they need either. I make a mental note to bring fresh fruit and veggies on my next visit.

As Mama picks at her lunch, I glance toward the end of her bed and notice her uncovered feet. Both of her feet are drawn into an unnatural position. Her toes are gnarled and curled under. While she’s eating, I ask if she can get out of bed. I would love to take her out into the garden on this beautiful, sunshiny day. She tells me she can’t. She has disks in her back that are very fragile and are in various stages of disintegration. How very sad, I think to myself, to be confined to a bed 24 hours a day 7 days a week. I don’t think I could stand it.

In just a few minutes, the TV comes back on. Mama wants to see a movie. Our conversation stops and she focuses on the actors on the screen. We sit and watch her as she watches her program. My husband is patient and understanding but I can tell, after a few hours, he’s ready to get back on the road. I send him a text and ask, “What time do you want to leave?” He responds and says, “Whenever you’re ready.”

We sit with Mama a little longer, watching the clock slowly tick the minutes away. I reach into my bag and pull out a Mother’s Day gift. I purchased a book I knew she’d wanted to read. Along with the book, I’d chosen a sentimental card. She thanks me for both and begins flipping through the pages of the book talking about the pictures inside. Her hands shake as she turns the page. I watch her eyes, intent on what she was reading and I realize time continues to march across her face as I count wrinkle upon wrinkle.

It’s time. I just feel it in my bones. It’s time for us to go. I lean down to kiss her and tell her goodbye. I try to come in close for a hug but I can’t get close because of the bedside railing. I try to maneuver around to the other side of the bed thinking I might have better luck there, but I still can’t get close enough. I manage to plant a wet kiss on her forehead and feel her do the same to my cheek. Oh how I wish I could get close to you, Mama. I long to be your little girl again.

We say our goodbyes and pack up our things. Mama is engrossed in her television show and barely seems to notice as we get ready to leave the room. The nurse comes in with some pills and before leaving, I ask about them. “What are they for?” I say. Mama explains that one pill is for nausea and the other is for pain. I ask if she’s hurting now and she says no but it helps to keep the pain she does suffer manageable.

As we back slowly toward the door, I look around the room. There are photos and family mementoes everywhere. My brother, sisters, and I have tried to make the room as pleasant as possible. We’ve tried to surround her with memories and love. Mama is content with her puffed corn and her movie. She doesn’t seem to mind being confined to bed at all. Just outside the window a cardinal flits by. I see the bright red brilliance and remember how very much Mama loves birds. I wish she could see it and I start to point it out to her but stop. I don’t want to interrupt her routine again. She’s settled and comfortable. We’ll just leave and maybe next time we can talk about birds.

My fingers press the exit code into the keypad. I try to use my knuckle to depress the numbers because of all the germs from previous users. We hear the door unlock and quickly make our exit. I wonder how many of the residents have tried to sneak out behind visitors when the door opens. As we depart, I look back and through the glass, I see the African American woman still sitting in her same spot, exactly where she was 3 hours ago. Two words cross my mind…stationary and still. How many hours do those residents sit in the exact same location without being moved? Do they sit there all day until some kind and caring staff member decides it’s time for a change? How do they survive their mundane existence? Many of them have already checked out through their gift of Alzheimer’s or Dementia but there are those sad few, the ones who are still of sound mind, who must struggle.

We pull out of the parking lot and I hang my head. My husband notices and says, “What’s wrong honey?” I tell him I am just so very sad…sad that things are the way they are for my mother and sad for all the residents who live there. I beg and plead with him to never, ever, put me in a nursing home. I tell him I can’t bear the thoughts of being held captive there. I make him promise me he’ll never put me in one and he does. He makes me promise the same.

We drive in silence over half the way home. I think we were both impacted by our visit today. When we arrive home, I am so thankful I can get out of the car and walk into my house. I’m thankful I can lock and unlock my door at will. I’m thankful I can get up and look out the windows whenever I choose to do so, and I’m thankful I only lie in bed when I’m ready to sleep or when I’m not feeling well.

Seeing a loved one’s health decline is not easy. The miniscule day to day changes are more evident when visits are infrequent. and seem to be magnified when viewed in their entirety. Geoffrey Chaucer said, “Time and tide wait for no man.” No matter how much I want to stop the hands of time, with regard to my mother’s aging process, I know I have no power to do so. It’s painful to watch her slowly decline but then again, “from the moment we are born, we begin to die,” says Janne Teller.

I guess the thing that makes it the hardest for me is knowing that one day she’ll be gone…and when she is, I won’t have my mother any more. But even though she’s still here, it’s almost like she’s already gone. She never asks me about me. She never seems to care what’s going on in my life. I know she still cares, but it would be nice if she would just ask. Even though I’m 57, I still need a mother.

There are so many days I want to pick up the phone and call her to ask advice or to just share a piece of news with her. When I do call, she doesn’t listen or perhaps she just can’t hear what I’m saying. She is either watching something on TV or is sleeping. At those moments, I realize, even though she’s still very much alive, my mother has checked out on her motherly duties. She’s no longer to be held responsible for offering motherly advice or fulfilling that role in my life. In the book, For One More Day, by Mitch Albom, his quote, while speaking of his own mother, explains exactly how I feel: ““But she wasn’t around, and that’s the thing when your parents die, you feel like instead of going in to every fight with backup, you are going into every fight alone.”

My father is gone. Both of my in-laws are gone. My mother is the only parental figure I have left in my life. I want to cling to her with all that is within me…but how selfish of me. I know she can’t shoulder my problems any longer. When I found out I had breast cancer, I wanted to run to her and hide in her skirt like a little girl and wrap my arms around her legs and cry, but she wasn’t there. When I called her and told her about my dilemma, she sympathized with me but offered no more. I needed her. I needed her to be there for me throughout my treatments and healing process. Instead, in the back of my mind, I kept hearing myself telling the little girl inside to grow up! To be an adult. To handle it. And so I did.

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